


beauty in the mind of the beholder

by picturelyuniverse



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Episode: s03e08 Is There in Truth No Beauty?, Flirting, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Intellectual Kirk, M/M, T'hy'la, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Mind Melds, space boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturelyuniverse/pseuds/picturelyuniverse
Summary: An episode tag to “Is There in Truth No Beauty”, in which our boys flirt over chess, Spock ignores his health (and his feelings), and Kirk tries to keep it in his pants, although not exactly in that order.





	beauty in the mind of the beholder

**Author's Note:**

> We all know about how Vulcan constitution is strong as heck but I’m pretty sure it takes a lot to go from the brink of insanity to normal functioning supercomputer again. Also, I’m a sucker for intellectual!Kirk (and basically the notion of Kirk flexing his intellectual muscles to impress his man). And so, here’s a random truckload of Spock h/c (where I take a very liberal dose of artistic licence with what McCoy would term “Vulcan mental voodoo”) and Jim Kirk flirting that no one asked for (because how is “you dressed up for the occasion, Spock, very impressive” remotely platonic?!).
> 
> Many thanks to [clloverbee](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/clloverbee) and [PrairieDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieDawn) for preventing me from embarrassing myself with all the errors and brainfarts from the first draft and leaving such lovely concrit! 
> 
> Onto the fic! Enjoy <3

It has been approximately 5.34 hours since Dr Jones and the Ambassador left the ship. Spock uses an approximation only because he has not managed to enter a proper meditative trance for the past 7.54 days despite his best attempts. His mental controls are tenuous at best and it is beginning to show. In the past five days, he has experienced near-dissociative periods lasting anywhere from five to thirty seconds, similar to yet unlike the short violent episode on the bridge after his mind has been consumed by the insanity of looking directly at Kollos. He recalls a brief sensation of detachment while he is tuning the sensors on the bridge during Alpha shift, fortunately during a period of relative inactivity. The considerably longer periods of dissociation have thankfully occurred while he is off-duty but that does not detract from how it is still significantly disconcerting. Perhaps most disturbing of all is the keen sense of loss that plagues him when he returns to himself, not unlike the phantom sensation of a lost limb.

Most irrational, considering how his mind is most certainly not missing a part of itself. There is a niggling doubt at the back of his mind, one that calls to mind the captain’s lightning flashes of intuition, that his inability to call on his usual levels of mental discipline is not merely a result of extreme fatigue and mental stress, as Doctor McCoy has diagnosed, but of something far more serious. It has certainly occurred to him that his slower-than-expected recovery could be ascribed to his unique hybrid physiology; that, however, does not rule out the possibility that his recovery might be impeded by another more insidious co-factor.

These thoughts crowd his mind even as he attempts once more to enter the first level of the meditative trance. To his chagrin, he has found that the scent of incense that would normally be calming to his mind has instead taken on a cloying edge, a shroud that stymies and smothers. Growing alarmed at the unusual turn his thoughts have taken, Spock seeks to divert his mental energies back to his main task at hand but the growing sensation of vertigo is making it difficult. His mind feels scattered, adrift, while his body feels disproportionately heavy.

It takes him a moment to discern that the door chime to his quarters has sounded. With a sense of growing alarm, he notes that at least forty seconds have elapsed from when he last had a lucid thought, the longest period of dissociation that he has experienced thus far. It is quite possible that it is not the first time that the door chime has sounded. His vocal chords grate unpleasantly as he instinctively calls out, “Come.”

He ascribes the sharp, unwarranted flash of surprise as he sees the captain stepping through the doorway to his faltering controls; however, he cannot deny the burgeoning sense of dismay that his concerted efforts to allay his captain’s concerns about his state of health thus far will be promptly undone by this visit.

“I’m sorry. Did I interrupt your meditation?”

Spock concedes that perhaps a visit to Sickbay might be in order after all when he registers the question rather belatedly. He forces himself a little unsteadily to his feet, clasping shaking hands behind his back as he turns to face Kirk. It becomes evident even to his sluggish mind that his efforts to conceal his deteriorating physical state have not gone unnoticed; Kirk steps right into his personal space, just shy of being chest-to-chest, an outstretched hand moving to grasp his shoulder gently but firmly.

“Spock, what’s wrong?” Kirk’s gaze is searching; his upturned face is a picture of intense concern.

It is strange how Kirk’s proximity has both a dizzying and steadying effect on his person. Illogically paradoxical but nonetheless true. Indeed, it is most curious how the moment the captain makes tactile contact, there is a momentary flare at the back of his mind and the lingering dizziness dissipates.

“Merely a moment of disorientation, Captain,” Spock supplies after a long moment, gaze averted but does not make to move away from him.

He suddenly finds himself under the full weight of Kirk’s piercing gaze.

“This doesn’t usually happen after meditation.” It is a statement more than a question. A peculiar warmth blooms at the back of his mind as Kirk’s fingers sooth a path down to his bicep, fingers tightening imperceptibly. Usually, the captain is particularly careful about respecting Vulcan boundaries, adapting his tactile command style to give him a considerably wider berth; Spock finds, however, in occasions where he is incapacitated or unwell, Kirk’s need for tactile contact is amplified tenfold.

Spock almost sighs. He considers prevaricating as a mode of evasion but recognises the futility of such an attempt; recalling how he has lost track of his self and surroundings for close to a minute, he concedes that it is for the best that he be removed from the duty roster for the time being.

“Indeed it does not,” he acknowledges dutifully, “and this is not the first time I have experienced such a lapse.”

Kirk’s eyes narrow slightly in alarm. “Is this a result of your encounter with Kollos?”

The captain’s response once again leads him to marvel at the power of Human intuition, or specifically, the power of intuition of a particular Human. Kirk’s grip becomes more insistent, his voice rising slightly in agitation.

“How many days has it been? Seven, eight? Bones said it’s just mental fatigue and stress but that’s not all, is it?”

Spock reluctantly extricates himself from Kirk’s grasp; the captain lets him go, moving to pace along the length of Spock’s quarters instead. He stops following Kirk’s progress around the room with his eyes; the sensation of vertigo seems to have returned with a vengeance. He presses a hand to his temple, where an irregular pounding has taken up residence.

The captain pauses in his pacing. “Spock,” his tone is urgent, growing harsh with worry.

Dimly, he is aware that there are dark spots crowding his vision. Kirk’s voice comes to him as if from a great distance. He finds himself longing to feel the bright spark, that which he now recognises as _Jim_ , in his mind again. Frowning slightly, he realises that he is being held up from under his arms; he has not felt himself slipping to the ground at all. He blinks in quick succession to clear his vision and is perturbed to find the captain closer than he expected, cheek almost brushing his. Shifting from his grasp, Spock props himself perfunctorily back on his own two feet, with no small amount of effort.

Kirk is studying his face intently – it is statistically likely that he is attempting to gauge the responsiveness of his pupils. Evidently finding nothing to deem him medically sound enough to forgo a trip to Sickbay, Kirk’s quiet declaration of “I’m getting Bones” is accompanied by a small frown. The sudden urge to reach out and smooth the crease of his brow is thankfully short-lived, partly because the captain turns away, punching the intercom button on his desk with possibly more force than necessary.

After that moment, the rest of it comes to him in random, fragmented flashes. The captain’s voice rising in agitation, a pervasive sense of disorientation and a growing feeling of enervation, the familiar, grating bark of McCoy’s voice made tinny through the intercom, the numbness in tangled limbs, the unforgiving, hard surface of the bulkhead and then…

Solitude.

* * *

Kirk should have known that Spock’s miraculous recovery from the brink of insanity was too good to be true. 

Pacing up and down the line of biobeds, Kirk tries to recall any instances of weakness that could have hinted at such a collapse. He has noted a lingering pallor in Spock’s visage and a fine, almost imperceptible tremor in his movements in the days that followed his encounter with Kollos and Dr Jones’s ministrations. How foolish has he been, to merely regard those as symptoms of fatigue? Being well-acquainted with his friend’s stubborn Vulcan tendency to downplay any kind of weakness, he should have been able to see past the hackneyed excuses about requiring more time for meditation and solitude, to discern the gravity of the problem. His self-recrimination, however, is interrupted by Bones circling round Spock’s biobed with a PADD in hand.

“Jim, there’s no use wearing a hole in my Sickbay, and you know it,” Bones grouses, but not unkindly. Kirk watches the doctor glance up at the biobed readings; he has long since given up on deciphering them, particularly when it comes to his First’s unique half-Vulcan physiology. He has found that it is much simpler to gauge the severity of Spock’s condition through the doctor’s reactions. Currently, Bones’ furrowed brow does not bode well at all.

“Bones, what’s wrong with him?” Kirk probes, and when no answer is immediately forthcoming, he adds, “I thought it was just a case of mental fatigue and stress.” Inwardly, he winces a little at the unintended note of accusation in his words.

Bones lets out an aggravated sigh but does not rise to the bait, unintentional as it is. “You do know that it’s a wonder he was even on his feet at all, after what he’s been through with Kollos and God knows what Dr Jones did, mucking about in his head like that. If it weren’t for that typical pig-headedness and his Vulcan voodoo…”

Bones purses his lips, looking down at his PADD with some consternation, as if it ought to be spitting out the right answers to him but is failing to do its job properly. Even as the taut coil of panic that accompanies every instance where Spock is incapacitated tightens uncomfortably in Kirk’s gut, it is not difficult to see that Bones is frustrated by something beyond his usual self-perceived ineptitude in aiding a patient in need. After all, while Bones does not share the unique friendship quite like the one he shares with Spock (and whether there is more to it than friendship is a can of worms he’d rather open another day), Kirk is certain that somewhere beneath the barbed repartee and ill-timed debates, there lies mutual respect and dare he say, grudging fondness.

“Perhaps you should endeavour to persuade medical professionals to incorporate the word “voodoo” into proper medical vernacular, since you seem to be so fond of it, Doctor.” The voice emitting from the biobed is hoarse but still manages to carry a note of ironic amusement.

Kirk can’t help but let out a bark of laughter, a familiar, light feeling bubbling up within him like one too many mouthfuls of champagne. “Why, Mr Spock, you might be onto something there,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially, not trying very hard to hide his relief at all as he rests a hand near Spock’s lax one on the biobed.  

Bones casts both of them a dark look, muttering about “ungrateful green hobgoblins” and “indulgent enabling starship captains” as he busies himself with peering at the biobed monitors and stabbing his patient with the relevant hyposprays. If he does the latter with less restraint than he normally does, he gives little indication of it.

“So, were you going to tell anybody that you were on the brink of collapse, or were you just going to pretend you have a medical degree and certify yourself fit for duty?” Bones snaps, discharging the contents of the final hypospray with the kind of finesse he usually reserves for Kirk alone.

Not quite how he would have put it, Kirk thinks wryly. Sensing an argument brewing on the horizon, Kirk steps in, voice soft. “Spock, it isn’t just fatigue, is it?” 

Kirk suspects that if his First isn’t quite as Vulcan as he is, he might have let out a sigh of exasperation.

“I have surmised as much,” Spock admits, not quite meeting his gaze, shifting his hand just out of reach of physical contact with Kirk’s. At that, Kirk narrows his eyes. While he can hardly say that his Vulcan First willingly seeks out human touch, Spock has rarely intentionally gone out of his way to avoid _his_ touch either. Well, two can play at this game.

Straightening up, Kirk deliberately takes two steps back from the biobed, his voice clipped as he demands, “Well, speculations, Mr. Spock?”

Spock exhales deeply as he struggles into an upright sitting position. In the periphery of his vision, Kirk catches Bones shooting him a bemused glance, as if wondering why he hasn’t made a move to assist his First as he is wont to do, particularly when said officer is down for the count. Kirk is certain he hasn’t been _that_ transparent about his regard for his First Officer.

“Take it easy, you damned hobgoblin,” Bones mutters gruffly as he places a steadying hand on Spock’s shoulder, “at least till we’ve determined just what is wrong with you physically.”

“Doctor, I do believe that to be a poor choice of words, considering that what is ailing me is most certainly not entirely physical in nature,” Spock intones slowly, gaze rising finally to meet Kirk’s eyes.

A sudden, hot flush washes over him at that proclamation. Momentarily, he is back on the hot red sands of Vulcan, the ahn-woon growing taut around his neck, the oppressive heat stealing the breath from his lungs, a growing madness in his dearest friend’s visage, one that is scarily lacking in recognition.

Kirk blinks away that awful vision, gaze refocusing on his First who quickly looks away, hands clenching and unclenching. Clearly, he isn’t the only one with pon farr on the mind.

Bones, bless him, tries his damnedest to ask the million-dollar question as tactfully as he can. “Spock, is it possible that the whole shebang with Kollos might have triggered some kind of biochemical imbalance in the brain?”

At that, Spock seems to withdraw further into himself, shoulders slumping fractionally; Kirk struggles with the urge to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Having his race’s shameful biological imperative played out in such a cruel and unexpected way the previous time is already more than Spock can bear. It’s taken weeks to coax his friend out from his Vulcan shell again after that incident, and now, Kirk fervently hopes that Spock won’t have to go through the same ordeal again; the selfish part of him just wants to be able to speak to and touch his Vulcan friend as freely as he is used to, unhindered by the complications of Spock’s physiology.

In the end, Kirk compromises by brushing a quick hand against Spock’s shoulder. He is largely certain that he isn’t imagining how Spock’s voice is marginally steadier when he responds to Bones’ query.

“I would not preclude that possibility but the symptoms I have experienced are rather dissimilar to the plak-tow, or any stage of pon farr,” Spock muses, brow furrowed. “However, the mental component of my condition does lend some viability to the hypothesis that this might be related to my encounter with the Ambassador.”

“Could you try to describe what this mental component entails?” Kirk probes. A quick glance at Bones reveals that the doctor appears to have been just about to ask the same question.

Spock brushes a hand over his lips as he ponders the question; in his experience, Kirk recognises that unconscious gesture to be a sign of distress, or at least, unease.

“Apart from the apparent physical disorientation, there is a marked disorientation in the mind as well. I am unable to attain levels of meditation beyond the shallowest stage. Each attempt is then accompanied by a sense of… loss, for lack of a more precise term.”

Even as there is a growing sense of disquiet about Spock’s mysterious ailment, Kirk can’t help but feel a brief glow of warmth at his Science Officer’s unwavering composure and conduct.

“Loss? Like a loss of self?” Bones interjects, evidently quick to jump onto the bandwagon about the possibility of Spock’s condition arising from the botched mind-link with Kollos.

Spock cants his head to the side as he considers it; yet, for some inexplicable reason, the moment right before Spock answers, Kirk is utterly certain that it isn’t so much a loss of a self but the loss of... _someone or something_ instead.

“That’s not it,” Kirk shakes his head, and realising that Bones is staring at him quizzically with narrowed eyes, he hastens to follow up on what must have been just plain old intuition. “It wasn’t the formation of the mind-link that was the problem,” a quick glance at Spock reveals quiet acquiescence in the form of a tiny incline of his head, “it was what happened after when Spock looked at Kollos in his true form that something went wrong. It’s only… logical to deduce that it’s not inability to retain a separate identity that’s the matter here.”

“As always, Captain, I find myself most amazed by your accurate leaps of intuition,” Spock returns, an obvious warmth colouring his tone for those who are well-acquainted with Spock-to-Standard translation. 

“But what?” Kirk paces a few steps away from the biobed, studiously ignoring the answering bloom of warmth in his chest at Spock’s words. “An improper severance of the mind-link? Could the feeling of loss be the loss of another mental presence?”

There is a peculiar look in his First’s eyes for a moment so fleeting that he swears that he must have imagined it. It’s gone as quickly as it appears; Spock’s face is the same impassive mask from moments ago, although it is just a little _too_ impassive, especially to the trained eye.

Bones snorts. “Well, if you ask my professional opinion, it looks like we’re way out of our depth here. And considering I’m the only certified medical professional here, contrary to popular belief spread by a certain Captain and First Officer, I say we get someone who actually knows their way about this Vulcan voodoo to weigh in on this.”

“Doctor,” Spock is quick – perhaps too quick – to interject, “while the services of a Vulcan healer will certainly be beneficial in ascertaining the cause of this ailment, it is entirely likely that these symptoms may have already subsided by the time we are able to engage the services of such an individual.”

Bones is frowning openly now. “Listen here, you pig-headed son of a…”

The gruff concern in his voice belies the truculent delivery of his words.

“Bones,” Kirk interrupts, casting him a warning look.

An idea is beginning to take root at the back of his mind. He tends to trust his intuition most of the time, and his innate determination is not going to let him back down without doing something about it. While every captain knows that sometimes defence is the best offence, something tells him this isn’t the time for a retreat. Either that, or James T Kirk just doesn’t know when to quit when it comes to Spock.

Bones throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, muttering angrily. “Let me know if either of you earns a medical degree by the time I get back. I’ll just be making myself useful by finding us an actual expert in this area.” Jabbing a hand in the vague direction of his office, Bones stalks off, still grumbling under his breath, not waiting for Kirk or Spock to reply.

The moment that Bones is out of earshot, Kirk draws nearer to the bed, just as Spock begins to attempt to prop himself up further, no doubt readying himself to swing his feet over the bed. 

“Spock,” Kirk urges, his voice pitched low, hands clenching reflexively at his sides with admirable effort to stop himself from touching the Vulcan. “Tell me I wasn’t imagining it when I felt something in my mind when I touched you in your quarters. Was that you reaching out?”

It’s painfully evident that it is entirely the wrong thing to say because Spock’s face closes off even faster than the Enterprise on Warp 8. However, that singular physical reaction answers his question for him; a picture, still incomplete but more whole before, is beginning to coalesce in his mind.

“Captain,” Spock intones evenly, his face a stony mask seemingly carved out of granite. “Touch telepaths such as myself are known to communicate by touch. Any emotional transference is most assuredly accidental and I offer my utmost apologies. I assure you that such a transgression will not happen again in future.”

“Spock, that’s not what I meant and you know it,” Kirk sighs, his tone gentling as he continues, “you should know by now that I never mind having you in my mind.”

_That_ statement certainly seems to have caught him off-guard. Spock pauses in the process of sitting up, eyes trained on a spot on the far end of the wall.

“Spock, look at me,” Kirk urges. Spock’s gaze slides over to meet his but just as Kirk, taking it as an encouraging sign, reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, the familiar tread of Bones’ footsteps forestalls any further discussion.

It’s only a minute movement but Kirk is acutely aware that Spock has shifted a few inches away from him in the instant it took for him to register the good doctor’s impending arrival.

“Alright, listen here, you two,” Bones’ Southern drawl is considerably thicker than usual, a clear indication of rising annoyance. “I just did some pretty damn thorough checking and it looks like we’re in luck. They’ve got a Vulcan healer on Starbase 14 and that’s not so far off the current course we’re set for, isn’t that right, Jim?”

“Doctor,” before Kirk can even begin to formulate an answer, Spock is already rising from his position on the biobed, “as I have enumerated on the reasons 4.24 minutes ago, a Vulcan healer is not required at this point in time.”

“Why, you persnickety hobgoblin, you merely suggested that your condition _might_ somehow magically resolve itself in the time taken to get to a Vulcan healer,” Bones rebuts, a slight twitch in his brow indicating the return of his growing ire, clearly unabated in its intensity. “Even if I somehow agree with your assessment, which I clearly don’t, I don’t see how getting an expert opinion could hurt.”  

“After my conversation with the captain, I recognise that this episode is merely an incident of a loss of control on my part, which I have duly taken responsibility for. As such, I am certain that there will not be a repeat of the incident after regaining my controls,” Spock replies coolly, getting to his feet just a tad unsteadily. 

The way Bones’ eyes seem to bulge impossibly wider might have been comical under different circumstances. Before the doctor can interject with an even more violent outburst, Kirk holds up a hand, forestalling further debate. “Gentlemen, I believe we will all benefit from another perspective. We need real answers, not unfounded conjectures.”

Bones has always accused Kirk and Spock of practically living in each other’s back pockets, even more than what is necessitated between Captain and First Officer; this is one of the times that Kirk is particularly glad that he knows his First so well, or at least, he’d like to think he does. He knows that the words he just uttered would appeal to the scientist – the pursuer of truths – in Spock, and he isn’t surprised when Spock acquiesces with a quiet incline of his head. He hopes Spock doesn’t see it as the Captain pulling rank because as much as he cherishes his Captaincy, the reason their command team works together so seamlessly stems from how they treat each other as equals in every sense of the word.

What he’s about to do is probably pretty damn out-of-the-ordinary (his inner Bones helpfully supplies him with the phrase “damn fool thing to do”), and might change their relationship, unimaginably so.

Yet, somehow, something deeper and wilder than his own instinct tells him that he’s already made his choice.

* * *

Jim Kirk has never believed in no-win scenarios.

Yet, as the end of Alpha shift the next day sees Kirk standing outside his First Officer’s quarters, jamming a fist against the intercom button for the third time, he’s wondering if he should revise that opinion, perhaps add an addendum specially for obstinate Vulcan Firsts who have a tendency to act like the immovable object to his unstoppable force.

Just as he’s considering the merits of attempting to enter through the interconnecting doors of their bathroom or perhaps using the override code, the doors finally open with a swish. He mentally breathes a sigh of relief. He has been starting to get a few stray curious glances from passing crewmembers, and while he prides himself on having one of the best crew in Starfleet, it’s still inevitable that word gets around in a small community on a deep space exploration mission; who knows what a few green-horned ensigns might come up with? Although he’s beginning to wonder if “Captain seen waiting like a jilted lover outside First Officer’s quarters” is really that far from the truth. While he largely turns a blind eye to the ship’s scuttlebutt – he’s even good-naturedly made a few anonymous contributions to various betting pools he’s not exactly meant to know about, he has always been fiercely protective of his Vulcan friend (he tells himself that it’s largely because of his Vulcan friend’s need for privacy but he knows, deep down, that it runs deeper than that).

The doors swish shut behind him; already, the scent of incense, piquant and heady, at once foreign yet familiar, invades his senses. Kirk frowns a little at the darkened state of the quarters. He’d expected to find Spock working at his desk terminal, or reading off his PADD. There seems to be something encoded in that Vulcan DNA that makes it physically impossible to not be productive at any given time, even when on medical leave. He smiles a little fondly at that thought.

Upon closer inspection, Kirk notices a familiar form hunched over the flickering fire-pot; “slumped” might perhaps have been a more adequate descriptor.

“Computer, lights to fifty percent,” he intones sharply.

As the lights spring to life, the seated figure stirs. Kirk is vaguely aware that he is now crouched scant inches from his First who, by all accounts, is blinking sleep groggily from his bleary eyes and attempting not to seem as if he has just been awoken from an unintended nap in the midst of meditation. To his credit, the split-second that Spock gains his bearings, he straightens his spine so fast Kirk swears he hears it pop and crackle.

“Captain,” Spock acknowledges, hands clasped loosely on his lap, the very picture of Vulcan decorum, as if he hasn’t just moments ago been caught dozing off while meditating. Ironically, dozing off is exactly what he should be doing, actually.

“Mister Spock,” Kirk admonishes lightly, suppressing the urge to tease (too much) or God forbid, reach out and clasp one of those long-fingered hands in his. “I do believe that you’ve been given orders to rest. Surely the bed is a more, ah, conventional and conducive place for such an activity?”

“Captain, as it was my intention to centre myself and regain my controls through meditation, I do not see why I should be, as you say, in my bed at this juncture.”

Spock is either completely oblivious to the potential innuendo that lurks beneath his rhetorical question, or simply being deliberately obtuse. Kirk is willing to put his money – he’s not the richest man around but Starfleet captains do live on a pretty generous salary – on the latter. In any case, he’s just glad that any residual awkwardness from their conversation in Sickbay seems to have died a natural death. Yet another of his favourite things about Spock is how natural spending time together (be it filing reports, playing chess or just basking quietly in one another’s presence on the Observation Deck) always feels. Mind-altering spores, amnesia, and many other wackier things have tried and failed to rend them apart.

So why does he feel so damned nervous about this whole thing? It feels like he’s on his first date all over again, his stomach roiling like a tin bucket of a ship in an ion storm. This is Spock, he reminds himself, not some pretty dignitary at a function he has to butter up with honeyed diplomacy, or a dangerously beautiful adversary that he must coax secrets from with tongue and body. A traitorous voice reminds him that he isn’t exactly averse to exploring the secrets that Spock’s body and mind hold, though.

“Well, if you insist on staying up,” Kirk pretends to muse aloud, grateful for the dimness of the lights that is, hopefully, hiding the slight flush that has trailed traitorously up his neck, “perhaps you’d be so kind as to indulge in a game of chess with me.”

The corners of Spock’s eyes lose some of their tension as he nods, gathering up the folds of his meditation robe as he makes to rise. As Kirk follows Spock’s fluid but precise movements in retrieving and setting up the chessboard across the room with his eyes, he is struck with the realisation that this Vulcan, this man, he who should be alien and impenetrable to the human eye and human heart, has somehow become the noblest, truest part of his soul.

Kirk fights to hide the tender smile that must be forming on his lips as he sits himself opposite Spock, the chess pieces quietly, efficiently filling up the board as those long-fingered hands arrange them with practised ease. The only sign that his First has been taken off-duty (and for good reason) is the hesitation – so miniscule that one is liable to miss it – between each piece, and the fact that each piece is not quite as precisely centred on each square as they normally will be.

“Jim,” Spock reminds, “I believe it is your turn to play white.” At the sound of his voice, Kirk makes an effort to smoothen away the furrow that he can feel is beginning to form between his brows. 

“As always, I defer to your superior memory,” Kirk teases, nudging a white pawn forward, gaze now fixed on his chess partner’s face.

As Spock contemplates the best opening move, Kirk takes a moment to examine the visage before him. The planes of that angular face have grown harsher with fatigue, undoubtedly the product of sleepless nights and failed meditation trances; just what manner of insanity has that brilliant, kind mind been subject to in those moments of naked cohabitation with Kollos? He is glad, however, to note that the lines of stress around his eyes and mouth have dissipated somewhat since the Sickbay visit.

“Y’know, Spock,” Kirk drawls, gaze instinctively darting down to his friend’s slender hands as Spock fingers a pawn thoughtfully, “sometimes I am keenly reminded of the fundamental differences that set us apart.”

Spock glances up at him, eyebrow raised expectantly. Well, best not to give too much of his hand away quite so early in the game.

“I’m ashamed to say that perhaps Miranda had a far better grasp of what it means to be different than the rest of us, much as she was, ah,” Kirk’s train of thought is momentarily derailed as he watches Spock circle the head of the pawn with one absent-minded finger, “subject to jealousy and hatred at one point.”

A very human thing, if he might say so himself. He has certainly been most keenly aware of the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head on more than one occasion, particularly when visiting scientists or dignitaries are drawn to his First like moth to flame. That happens far too often, in his opinion, though he wouldn’t fault them for their good taste. 

“You are referring to Dr Jones’s ability to appreciate the mental union with the Ambassador despite his purportedly disagreeable physical appearance?” Spock cants his head to the side as he, too, pushes his pawn forward on the chessboard. Perceptive as always. If he doesn’t know any better, he could have sworn that Spock has a direct link into his brain.

At Kirk’s non-committal hum, Spock continues. “One might contend that her lack of prejudice against Kollos’ physical appearance may stem from her circumstances, though certainly, her aspiration to mind-link with the Ambassador was most admirable.”

Ah, Spock. A lesser man would not have been quite as placid and forbearing in the face of such hateful jealousy, momentary as it has been. Beneath his gentle demeanour lie the banked coals of centuries of pre-Surakian passion and violence in his blood, and yet, Spock has never been anything but the kindest and most compassionate of beings among all he has met in his travels. It’s awfully humbling sometimes to know that he could call him his friend, his confidante, his other half.

“Ah, prejudice. It’s mortifying to think that having gained the ability to traverse the stars and having met so many different beings, we’re still undeniably set in our ways. Just take the concept of beauty, for example.” Kirk gestures with a knight in his hand. Easy there, Kirk, don’t want to lay it on too thick too fast. 

“I believe that I… mentioned the ancient Greek beauty ideals of pre-warp Earth during Dr Jones’ and the Ambassador’s visit,” Spock cut in smoothly before he could continue. “I regret if I caused any offence.”

“I wouldn’t fault you there. _[Kalokagathia](http://artandpopularculture.com/Kaloskagathos%20)_ 1is indeed an outmoded notion,” Kirk teases with a twinkle in his eyes. Spock looks vaguely impressed at his use of the archaic terminology; he fights back the urge to grin. “I’m surprised that you didn’t point out the fallacy of the converse right there and then. Why, I’m disappointed in you, Mister Spock.”

Spock averts his gaze momentarily; Kirk’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of those fine dark lashes momentarily contrasted against pale olive cheeks. 

“Indeed but I would not fault the ancient Greeks for promulgating the concept of _[xanthos](http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-30746985)_ 2, one that I believe still persists in the contemporary consciousness for good reason.” The teasing, almost coy look in Spock’s eyes belies the serious, matter-of-fact delivery.

Is… Is Spock flirting back at him? The fleeting but significant glance that his Vulcan First casts at his blonde hair (his tawny complexion and physique too, a voice in his mind reminds him traitorously) says it all. Kirk silently congratulates himself for his ability to multitask even in high-pressure situations – a skill drilled deep into his psyche since his Academy days – as he clears his throat.

“What can I say, we humans can be rather illogical,” is all Kirk manages to get out as his brain scrambles to work at warp-speed to decode Spock-speak (and flirtatious Spock-speak at that)! He hastily advances his knight forward. “Well, I can hardly imagine Vulcans being irrational enough to judge an individual’s worth based on his or her appearance.” 

“Vulcans are taught to practise the concept of IDIC from a young age.” Spock’s voice gives nothing away. 

That’s a non-answer if he ever heard one; coupled with the way Spock is now studiously scrutinising the chessboard, he’d have to be a blind man not to see how the subject has discomfited his friend, to put it mildly.  

“I always found the idea of IDIC rather… fascinating, if you will,” Kirk continues casually. “Correct me if I’m wrong but I’m sure it extends beyond mere acceptance of the different physical forms of different beings.”

Spock inclines his head in quiet acquiescence. “It is only logical to accept the reality that infinitely diverse beings exist.”

Only logical, indeed. “Might I go so far as to say that it is precisely this kernel of truth that makes existence meaningful and, dare I say, beautiful?” Kirk ploughs ahead, willing him to look at him in the eye.

“In essence, yes, although I must point out that what is beautiful and what is true can be subjective at times.” Spock is practically speaking to the chessboard at this point. That can’t do. Time for a slightly more roundabout approach.

“That’s the beauty in it, I suppose.” Kirk chuckles at the momentarily bewildered look that Spock graces him with. The confusion eases considerably but does not dissipate altogether when he continues with a quote. “Who says that fictions only and false hair become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?”

“[“Jordan 1”, George Herbert](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44364/jordan-i).” Spock supplies automatically. It’s Kirk’s turn to be impressed and he hides a fond smile behind one hand. “You refer to truth as inherently a thing of beauty?” His brows knit together in thought.

“Well, in a sense, yes. I wouldn’t say that exactly but there must be beauty in some truths,” Kirk offers, still smiling.

There goes that infamous eyebrow lift again. “Vulcans do find aesthetic appreciation in certain existing truths and realities.”

Kirk’s grin widens. “What about the reality of existing bonds between individuals?” Spock freezes, eyes narrowed. “Don’t Vulcans seek, ah, fulfilment in their unions too? Perhaps not necessarily fulfilment from physical beauty…”

Spock’s expression becomes shuttered, his reply more terse than before. “Captain, I am sure you are aware that Vulcan bonding occurs at a young age, out of necessity. It is nothing more than the product of the unfortunate biological truth of Vulcan physiology.”

Steady now, Kirk. “Well, Science Officer, humour a curious human for once. How does mental compatibility factor into this? Surely there is beauty in the bond between two highly compatible individuals, when even the slightest touch…”

Here, he trails off and there is a pregnant pause that seems to stretch on for ages; Kirk is well aware of how the tension in the air has ratcheted up several notches. Spock’s face is carefully unreadable, a mask carved from granite, the very same non-expression he has worn in the weeks that followed his aborted pon farr; Kirk is willing to bet his captain’s stripes that his friend is well aware of what he is offering.

“Spock,” he tries again but Spock merely closes his eyes, turning his face aside as if unable to bear being a part of this conversation.

They are close enough to touch, with only the chessboard between them, but it is beginning to feel like the distance between them spans light-years. Abruptly, Kirk gets to his feet, circling round to Spock’s seat slowly, eyes never leaving his First’s face as he does so.

“Jim,” Spock’s voice is low and pained, akin to that of a wounded animal that is already absolutely certain of its imminent death and has long since resigned himself to it.

At least he recognises that this is a “Jim” conversation and not a “Captain” one. Miniscule as such a victory may be, it has not always been so; it had taken many months before he could get Spock to call him by his given name off-duty, and several more before the Vulcan would sometimes concede to doing so on rare occasions on the bridge or when they are left alone on landing parties. Recalling several greatly cherished instances where he’s seen his First grace him with a brilliant eye-smile, or felt the gentle but firm touch to his shoulder or elbow, Kirk grows even more certain that he is not alone in this simple feeling. How, then, might he convince his Vulcan friend? Has he not been applying the most rigorous of all logic to their discussion this evening? Certainly, he thinks he couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.

“Spock, don’t you want to find out the truth about this too?” Kirk murmurs. He is now close enough to Spock to reach out a hand to encircle the Vulcan’s wrist, applying just enough pressure to hold him there but not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.

A slow, shuddering breath, and then, “Jim, do not be so certain that you will not find this truth of yours to be wanting.” Spock is still refusing to look at him, and the use of double negatives is telling about his mental state indeed. 

Something about the wording of that sentence flips a switch in his head; the result is a single, dazzling conclusion that he is surprised he has not landed upon earlier. After all, isn’t he the one who meted out the very verdict his First is parroting back at him now during that dinner with Dr Jones and Marvick? Kirk has always prided himself on being open-minded and progressive about just about anything, not just because he is a starship captain obliged to make First Contact with new and strange species and is constantly hyper-aware of the 420 unique beings under his charge, but because he genuinely cherishes the diversity that makes up what little of the universe he has seen for himself thus far. Retrospectively, he finds himself examining the way he worded his little spiel to Miranda days ago, when he asked her to consider the fact that she might eventually yearn for love from someone who looks like her, regardless of how beautiful the mind of a Medusan may be.  While he might not have uttered those words with any ill intent, and part of him is acutely aware that he was simply playing the part of a charming young captain looking out for a beautiful young lady, the sentiment behind them still speaks of a stereotypically Human approach to a union between two beings.

Taking Spock’s long, limber fingers in his own hand, he clumsily arranges them into a vague approximation of the grip he has seen him make at the temples of countless other beings in the line of duty. Feeling a fine tremor in those fingers, he loosens his grip. “Spock, please. Help me understand.” 

The fingers stutter at his temples, but maintain contact. He is only far too aware of the nature of thoughts that must be running through his friend’s mind; in fact, he finds that he doesn’t even have to concentrate much to be able to discern a vague sense of _shame yearning guilt_ , no doubt some form of emotional transference courtesy of the physical contact. 

“Jim,” he has rarely heard his first officer and friend sounding so utterly wrecked, “you do not know what you are offering. Please cease and desist.”

Allowing his lips to spread into a slow, soft smile, the one he has always reserved for Spock, Kirk replies with a hint of his usual rakishness, “I’d say I know just what I’m getting into, mister.”

The burgeoning sense of yearning, initially a low, warm simmer worming its way beneath his skin, is now being stoked – reluctantly, if Spock’s clenched jaw and creased brow are of any indication – into a rather brilliant blaze. For a brief moment, in an entirely disparate image, Kirk envisions a young plant sapling drinking in a tiny square of sunlight as if starved, budding leaves leaning into the light as the light itself seems to solidify in ethereal wisps around its stem.

“Fascinating.” The word, spoken in that familiar baritone, is barely audible but the quiet wonderment in his voice is anything but. Kirk’s smile grows slightly.

“Y’know, Mr Spock,” Kirk begins almost leisurely, fingers beginning their slow, circuitous path along the back of Spock’s hand that has begun to relax minutely in its grip at his temples, “I stand by what I said about being naturally attracted by beauty. The only thing prejudiced about that is the narrow-minded way we view beauty when beauty exists in so many forms. Everything has a kind of beauty to it, if you put your mind to it.” 

“And you, my friend, are very beautiful,” Kirk murmurs and caresses a palm against the angular planes of Spock’s face, “here”, and noting how his friend turns minutely into his palm, carefully lays his fist flat against the fluttering heartbeat in his side, “here”, and last but not least, as Spock’s frame relaxes against his hand, he lets his fingers retrace the same path, only to end in a soft sprawl against Spock’s temples, “and most of all, here.”

“Jim,” Spock starts, exhaling shakily through his mouth, eyes wide. The fingers at Kirk’s temples falter but hold themselves steady. Encouraged by that tiny action, Kirk presses on.

“But that’s not all there is to the truth I’m seeking, Spock,” Kirk continues, voice soft as he strokes Spock’s temples gently. “Didn’t you say that it is our differences that combine to create meaning and beauty?” At his friend’s answering nod, he stills his fingers, reaching out to grasp the other hand hanging lax by Spock’s side and guide it to his other temple.

“Meld us, Spock,” Kirk urges, “and let us see ourselves, see for ourselves.”

Spock closes his eyes and Kirk is afraid he might try to pull away; a soft warmth blooms in his chest when his friend nods, exhaling deeply, fingertips a comforting weight at his temples.

“I must, however, warn you that this might be a rather… disorienting experience for us both, considering the compatibility of our minds and the intensity of my need for another mind-presence.” Spock averts his gaze momentarily, sounding positively apologetic. 

“Well, Mister Spock, then I’d say we best make ourselves comfortable,” Kirk teases, and is almost startled when Spock immediately rises, taking him by the elbow, one hand still stroking languidly at the crown of his head.

Kirk laughs as Spock quietly and determinedly walks him backward, but the laughter catches in his throat when the back of his knees bump into the familiar outline of a bed – Spock’s bed, his mind trills. All the blood in him seems to have suddenly ventured southward as Spock gently divests him of his boots, lifting his legs onto the bed with a carefulness that rivals only his handling of the most delicate and important of scientific instruments. He mentally kicks himself ( _down, boy, not now_ ) but can’t help turning on his side, tracing the well-defined outline of Spock’s back and the tantalising curve of his rear over and over with his eyes as his friend leans down to remove his own boots.

Then, Spock is stretching out next to him, bare feet curling slightly into the sheets. Kirk finds himself reaching out a hand without thinking to cup his cheek, unable to resist the slightly mussed hair and the quiet, steady stare; it feels so completely natural to tangle their legs together.

“Hey, we alright?” Kirk asks, gaze soft as he traces the curve of one ear gently.

Spock gives an almost imperceptible nod, turning his face into Kirk’s palm; his own hands, too, have reached up to Kirk’s face of their own accord. A pause, pregnant with thought and hopes and fears, and then:

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts…” 

* * *

Kirk finds himself immensely glad that they’ve been lying on a horizontal surface because they literally _fall_ into the meld. As much as he prides himself on his hard-earned space legs, the sensation of utter weightlessness as they fall is momentarily disorientating, to say the least. He quickly realises that they’re not falling, so much as floating in space, the familiar vast blanket of darkness interspersed with little pinpricks of light.

_Spock?_ Kirk concentrates on pushing out that tiny morsel of mind-speech. He blinks, surprised to see that Spock’s form coalesces almost immediately in front of him. He reaches out for him – to hold his hand, close his fingers round the curve of his shoulder, to caress his cheek, _anything_ – but there is an invisible yet highly palpable barrier between them. With a growing sense of dread and shock in his gut, he hears the distant rumble of thunder. A thunderstorm in space? That doesn’t seem to bode well at all.  

The distant rumble of thunder grows into an unfettered roar. His eardrums feel like they might shatter. He is sincerely glad that the laws of the real world don’t seem to apply here, for he would have had a lot of other things to worry about right now. He isn’t even really incredulous anymore as the harsh patter of rain suddenly pounds into him. He needs to get to Spock. Now! Gritting his teeth, he claws and pries at the barrier with all his might, rain running in rivulets down his arms and his face. He feels something begin to give.  His heart hammers in his throat as he finally manages to grasp onto the blue velour of Spock’s uniform shirt with both hands, pulling the figure, curled in on himself, toward him. 

_Spock!_ He mind-shouts, and then feels rather silly for shouting when he is practically holding the Vulcan in his arms. The dim feeling of embarrassment at his mental ineptitude fades when he is almost immediately rewarded with the slow flicker of eyelids and a familiar brown-eyed gaze peering out at him through a fringe of sodden hair. 

Familiar hands begin to unclench themselves; long fingers – fingers of a musician and a scientist – curl unsteadily into his uniform shirt. The rain seems to have eased somewhat; the patter of rain is now considerably more bearable, to say the least. In any case, Kirk is now in a better position to truly appreciate the bizarre beauty that is rain in space. He follows the path of rainwater sluicing down Spock’s face with his eyes, thoroughly mesmerised. Up and over the curve of his brow, catching in his lashes, down the planes of his cheeks and that beloved prominent nose, and skirting over the bow of his lips.

_Jim_ , Spock’s mental voice somehow manages to sound both measured and uncertain at the same time. He has drawn closer to Kirk in the span of time that has elapsed since the barrier has broken; now, he holds Kirk’s gaze, face bare inches from his. Kirk frowns when he feels him shudder lightly against him.

_Are you cold?_ Kirk starts chafing up and down Spock’s arms with his hands, frown growing at the drag of his palms against the sodden material of the uniform shirt.

_Jim, the forms we now take are only projections of the mind. I assure you, I am fine_. Spock protests, uncurling one hand from the front of his shirt long enough to grasp Kirk’s arm. Kirk ceases his attempts to warm him up, instead choosing to slide his hands up to cup Spock’s face. Almost instantaneously, pinpricks of light coalesce between his fingertips and Spock’s temples. Perhaps what’s even more amazing than the ethereal-looking spectacle before him is the look of soft wonder on Spock’s face, in the barely parted lips and the widened eyes.

_The rain’s stopped._ Kirk notes, almost absently drawing tiny circles around Spock’s meld points with his fingers. Spock’s hands have also migrated to clutch gently as Kirk’s temples, fingers tangling loosely in his hair.

To Kirk’s delight, Spock leans almost drowsily into his palm. _It is most fascinating that the turmoil in my mind chose to manifest itself in this way to both of us._

_Thunderstorms in Iowa can be pretty common._ Kirk offers with a miniscule shrug, smiling.

_On Vulcan, however, they are not._ Spock’s mind-voice is soft but serious; the arch of his brow and the quirk of his lips, however, seem to tell him that they aren’t simply talking about thunderstorms anymore.

Kirk suddenly feels a lot smaller and a lot less sure-footed. Who is he to know about mind-links and the needs of Vulcans? The past week has made him realise that as much as he prides himself on being an open-minded man, there is still much for him to learn as a human in such a vast universe. Who is he to come barging in on his friend when he is at his most vulnerable? Who is he to presume that he is the one who can help him?

_Is this what you need?_ Am I what he needs? Belatedly, Kirk realises that in a mind-meld, at least in a meld with this level of depth between two highly compatible individuals, there is little that is hidden, that can be hidden from Spock.

_Jim. I believe that I have long since known the answer to that particular line of inquiry, and have only admitted as such to myself after some much-needed convincing on your part._ Spock’s mind-voice, amused yet abashed, curls around him like a second skin, warm and familiar. _As have you. T’hy’la._

A shiver runs through him at the sound of the Vulcan endearment – the soft, intimate cadence of Spock’s normally stoic voice precludes any other possibility. _T’hy’la._ Kirk echoes with a grin. _I like that. Will you tell me what it means someday?_

Amazement spreads through Kirk like a long draught of Saurian brandy on a cold day when he realises that he can _feel_ the glimmer of Spock’s answering smile in the miasma of shifting lights around them. _Indeed, ashayam. The nights on my home-world are long and sweet. There is time enough for that yet. 3_

Kirk wishes that the next few moments can be imprinted in his mind for years and years to come. The splendour of the birth of a star amidst the ashes of its deceased predecessor, the chiaroscuro of starlight and shadow rippling across Spock’s face, the feeling of Spock’s hand, warm and solid in his.

Fleeting as it is, a strange joyful lassitude washes over him. By the end of it all, he feels like he must have lived out a whole lifetime, and then some; if that is so, it would have been a lifetime well-lived.

Ruefully, he wonders if his lack of ability to process and remember more stems from the fact that his mind is a wholly human one. The brief moment of regret soon fades into the background as Spock’s mind moulds itself to his. 

_Yes. There will be time enough for everything._

* * *

They return to themselves as two separate beings on the bed, fully clothed, albeit somewhat dishevelled. Spock is reluctant to withdraw fully from his captain’s mind but he is acutely aware of the need to do so, partly out of respect for the human need for mental privacy. He allows himself a moment to savour the _affection fondness warmth_ bleeding into the pads of his fingertips before he removes his hands from Kirk’s temples. Instantly, he feels bereft, although logically, he should still be able to reassure himself of the captain’s presence both physically and through the strengthened link. 

“Jim, I do not wish to appear ungrateful for the experience tonight and for what you’ve done that has most assuredly alleviated my condition, but …” Spock struggles to find the right words for what has come to pass between them, and even more so for what else he hopes might come to pass.

Spock is momentarily surprised when Kirk twines their fingers together, tugging gently to pull their bodies closer, such that he almost misses Kirk’s reply. “But perhaps you thought that I might like a more, ah, physical rendition of tonight’s activities as well?”

The proximity of his body to Kirk’s is unprecedented but not unwelcome. With Kirk’s face mere inches from his, Spock is certain he can count each individual crinkle around his eyes. The twinkle in his captain’s eyes is, of course, unmistakeable at this distance. Having shared a meld of such depth and intensity with this man, he finds that there is little else he would not share with him.

“Indeed, although I had originally intended to convey my own desire for such a physical joining,” Spock admits a little shyly, firming his grip around Kirk’s fingers.

He finds that the slow grin that spreads across Kirk’s face like a sunrise is worth the emotional admission indeed. Blinking a little blearily, he watches as Kirk reaches out a hand to brush his fingers through his bangs, then running them lazily over the curve of his ear. He shudders slightly, sensing the beginnings of physical stirrings within him.

“Believe me, Spock, I want nothing more than to do that with you,” Kirk murmurs, the motions of his fingers over the point of his ear slowly gentling with his words. “But in the words of a very dear friend, we will have time enough for that.” Then, his tone grows rakish. “Many, many times over, I should hope.”

A few more quiet moments spent just holding each other, and then Kirk quips, “I guess I better call Bones and let him know we won’t need the services of a Vulcan healer after all.”

The innocence in that statement is belied by the devious gleam in his eye. An interesting picture of this evening’s events are beginning to coalesce in his mind; Spock ascribes his previous inability to ascertain Kirk’s premeditated plan of seduction (for lack of a better term) in place of reliance on a Vulcan healer to his deteriorating condition.

Opening his mouth to answer, Spock finds himself assailed by the strongest urge to yawn; indeed, his attempt to reply is interrupted by a sonorous yawn, much to his chagrin and Kirk’s illogical delight. Kirk lets out a shout of laughter, burying his nose against Spock’s shoulder in a poor attempt to conceal his glee.

As Kirk’s ensuing fit of mirth subsides, Spock curls a tentative arm under and around Kirk’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

“Your arm’s going to fall asleep if you keep that up,” Kirk warns without any heat to his voice, even as he shifts his head to rest more snugly in the crook of Spock’s neck, yawning rather loudly. It seems almost… natural to let his chin come to rest amidst the bed of tousled blonde-brown hair.

Just as Spock feels the tension begin to bleed out from the compact form nestled against his side, a muffled voice rumbles against the hollow of his neck. A most fascinating sensation, Spock notes, that will most certainly require considerably greater number of data points for a thorough investigation.

“Oh, and Mr Spock?” Spock raises an eyebrow at the obvious affection colouring the familiar tenor. “I’d say there’s plenty of beauty in this truth of ours, wouldn’t you say?”

He is certain that Kirk can feel the mental imprint of _contentment belonging joy_ that suffuses his entire being in answer.

* * *

1 _Kalokagathia:_ derived noun of the adjectival idiomatic phrase “kalos kagathos” that was used in ancient Greek literature, meaning “the beautiful and good” 

2 _Xanthos:_ meaning “golden” or “tawny” - a standard epithet used to describe heroes in epic literature

3Adapted from the beautiful lines from Harlan Ellison’s original script for “The City on the Edge of Forever”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you all for reading! Would really appreciate any feedback/con crit on my first slightly longer fic <3
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of writing more TOS episode-related fic so hmu on Tumblr @ [picturelyuniverse](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/picturelyuniverse) if you wanna discuss ST headcanons or if you just wanna talk!


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